


Fragments, Or: I Hope You Like Hot Rod

by Sophisticated_Adult



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Hot Rod is the best one, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:49:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1391680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophisticated_Adult/pseuds/Sophisticated_Adult
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of stuff that never became full-blown fics and will likely never be finished. Features copious amounts of me liking a character way too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sunstorm, Side A

**Author's Note:**

> General notes: So it turns out I'm bad at a) actually finishing things and b) working on one thing until it's done, so I have all these ~1000-2000 word shorts/introductions I know I'm never going to do anything with. Feel free to pilfer any plot-bunnies that catch your attention, just let me know!

“I'm guessing there's a reason you asked for me.” 

Jazz dipped his helm in greeting, a big smile on his face as Hot Rod took his seat. “Yep. You don't have to make any decisions right away. You were personally recommended, is all. Thought we'd at least try an interview.”

“Ugh.” Hot Rod made a face. “Really? I'm sorry, they probably don't know what they're talking about. I didn't even really do anything in the war.”

Jazz shrugged, rolling his shoulders in an expressive movement. “Maybe you weren't trading blows with Megatron, but you're an Autobot all the same. We've had at least five incidents so far of Neutrals trying to get ahead by plastering our symbol on themselves and hoping no-one'd look at the registry.”

Hot Rod shook his head. The whole thing made him feel uneasy, inadequate. No mech who'd worn the Autobot or Decepticon badge before the war finished was allowed to remove it, a sign of heroism and respect for Autobots and hate and scorn for Decepticons. Hot Rod was three vorns old and had known nothing but the war all his life. He'd joined the Autobots the day of his first-vorn anniversary. All the ceremony had involved was Kup proudly handing over a badge he'd banged together and promising that he'd make a stencil if Roddy wanted it painted on, once they'd gotten some extra paint of course. Then it was back to the same as usual: running raids when they could and surviving. 

He didn't feel like a hero. Optimus Prime was a hero. He was just a kid lucky enough to get picked up by a small band of resistance Autobots on Cybertron. 

And now Optimus Prime's Third-in-Command was angling for him to take care of a Decepticon. 

“It was Kup, wasn't it?” Hot Rod sighed. “He's the only one who'd recommend me for something like this.” For anything, really. 

Jazz's smile flicked up into a grin. “Maybe. Now, Hot Rod – is Roddy okay? - well, Roddy, you don't have to worry. You won't get one of the big, scary ones, I promise. We've got some Seekers that're only a little older than you, never saw much action. They just had the misfortune to end up in Shockwave's hands.” 

“Okay.” Hot Rod shifted nervously, kind of wishing he'd thought to bring a friend along to talk him out of it. 

“Doesn't seem right to keep 'em all in lockdown when they never really did anything. Here.” Jazz pushed a data pad across the table. “Take a look. You can go home now, if you want. Just have a look through there and see if you think you'll be okay with any of these guys. You'll get a grant for any upkeep costs, mostly fuel allowance. Just a little somethin' to sweeten the deal.”

“Thanks.” Hot Rod took the data pad. _If we'd lost_ , he wondered, _would the 'Cons even bother with something like this?_ This was second chances, if you believed everything that was said. There had been a big deal in the news about Thundercracker becoming Prowl's personal aide; Ironhide took on the entire Combaticon team, and seemed to be winning them over. Those were the big ones everyone knew about, but it wasn't that unusual to see a Decepticon looming over his Autobot keeper on the street. There were no free 'Cons, despite Optimus Prime's long and passionate speeches on the subject that Hot Rod stayed up late to watch on their small vidscreen. It was an uncomfortable subject when everyone was dancing around the word _slave_ and the shining hero of the war hammered it down on the heads of the Senate, again and again to the point where he'd been criticised for it by some journalists.

\---

Jazz hadn't been lying. These must be the youngest Decepticons they had on the roster. 

Hot Rod sat back on the couch – comfortable enough, just about big enough to have him and Springer at the same time. At one point they'd wanted a bigger one, but then suddenly they didn't need to upgrade any more.

He'd had to wait until Springer was out before he even dared think about taking a look.

He flicked through the data pad Jazz had given him, briefly looking through all the profiles before he got more in-depth. The eldest Seeker, an unfriendly looking green guy, came in at 11 vorns; 3 younger than Springer and 2 older than Arcee, still three times Hot Rod's age. He passed over that one without even bothering to read the rest, not trusting himself with responsibility for a mech that had that much more experience than him. Really, what had Kup been thinking when he'd recommended Hot Rod to Jazz's team? The old mech had always gone on about his 'potential', but wasn't this a little much? It wasn't like Seekers were easy mechs to deal with even with the command codes and the collar he'd be given if he did decide to go for it.

And then there was Springer. Poor guy was still shook up after Arcee left, despite Hot Rod's best efforts. It wasn't like they could just forget her and move on like a failed blind date. The last thing Springer needed was coming home to find an adopted Seeker sharing the apartment and taking Hot Rod's attention away from him.

Still, Hot Rod felt he at least owed Jazz to look at the offered 'Cons properly before he steeled his back-struts enough to say 'no'. 

Sunstorm. Four and a half vorns. Known involvement in two skirmishes with Autobot forces on Cybertron, no confirmed kills. Hot Rod didn't think the battles had been with his group; he was pretty sure he'd remember that striking paintjob if he'd ever gone up against it. Maybe it had been Elita's team? They were the ones Shockwave really wanted to go after. Kup and Ultra Magnus' small force of rag-tag survivors was a minor annoyance compared to the elite femme team and the sheer amount of sabotage and harassment they managed over the course of the war.

Hot Rod must have dozed off at some point, because he was woken up by a message from Springer.

_:Rod, are y'wake? Frag, M'sorry. Think I need y' to come get me.:_

Hot Rod sighed. Oh dear. If Springer was slurring over the comm line, which didn't involve actual sound...

_::I'm fine, don't worry about it. Where are you?:_

_:Swerve's. M' a stupid aft...:_

_:Your aft is great, shut up. Be there soon.:_

Hot Rod tossed the data pad on the couch, still showing Sunstorm's handsome face, and stood up. Swerve's Joint had quickly become the unofficial-official home of the Wreckers not long after it had opened its doors for the first time. Which meant that there really ought to be someone there who would help Springer. Some friends they were, Hot Rod thought, more angry at them than at Springer. At least he had an excuse. 

\---

It was dark outside, as always. Hot Rod missed sunlight from the short few months he'd spent on Earth, but the scientists and their higher-ups had yet to even agree if creating a new day-night cycle was possible. For now, Cybertron's darkness was taken as something you had to live with. Neon lights and glow-paints were very popular, from innocuous shops wanting to stand out to respectable businesses that would never normally resort to such gaudy advertising. Hot Rod preferred his headlights; he already had enough upkeep to spend on various reds and oranges and yellows for his paintjob than adding glow effects as well. He didn't want to blind anyone.

Not that you even really needed it when the main streets were so lit up it might as well be daylight. A Cybertronian's schedule for work and recharge no longer went by day or night, but the times their shifts started and finished. To be honest, Hot Rod preferred the day and night cycle - at least then you only had two rush hours rather than constant movement of mechs going to and from their jobs at what seemed like all times of the cycle. It wasn't so bad now, mid-shift for some of the major employers, but the streets were still busy enough for him to think twice about taking his alt-mode. 

Swerve, Swerve. Down past that scrap shop Kup liked; guy never bought anything new if he could help it. Hot Rod nodded to himself, calculating the best path before he joined the bustle of mechs – and occasional femme – that happened to be going in the same way he was. 

\---

Halfway across Cybertron's capital city, another bar was winding down. Most of the fun-seekers and socialisers had made their way home or to the next place that did decent mid-grade. Still in her corner, Arcee had no intention of leaving until she got kicked out or the next rowdy group of mechs coming off their shifts turned up and thought it was a good idea to take on a lone femme who just wanted her energon.

She had time. And, thanks to her Autobot symbol, some protection if the landlord got sick of seeing her. He would have to weigh up personal dislike against the scandal it would cause to mistreat an Autobot customer. That kind of bad press just wasn't worth it.

It was still a new experience, being alone. It was...nice. She had time for herself, rather than managing her life around what her friends were doing or wanted to do later. 

“Don't think I've seen you here before. Testing the waters?”

Arcee looked up, surprised to see Blaster taking the seat across from her. 

“In a way,” she replied, nodding her acknowledgement of him. She'd never really known him much, but his smile sure could light up the room. Just like someone else she knew...

No. She pushed that thought out. Roddy would probably be happy to still be friends after some time to get over it, but she knew Springer would never forgive her. She'd made her choice. There was no going back.

Blaster seemed to read her thoughts.

“I bet it's good, huh? Getting to be by yourself for once.”

“Yeah.” Arcee looked at him, surprised. “You heard about it?”

Blaster chuckled and tapped his helm. “Communications specialist. Ain't much goes on I don't hear about.” Arcee shrugged. It wasn't like it was a big secret or anything. 

“I thought most people would see me as the bad guy.” It was something she'd accepted, but it was still hard to admit out loud to someone else.

Blaster smiled. She liked mechs who were flashy without being obnoxious about it. He fit the bill pretty well. “I figure you've got your reasons.”

She nodded, trailing a lone finger around the rim of her half-full cube. “I just woke up next to them one day and thought, this is it? This is the rest of my life? When did that happen? Wham, it just all came down on me. Best friends, lovers, bondmates – that's it. I don't get to try anything else, ever. I had to get out of there or I thought I'd go crazy.”

“So here you are.” Blaster dipped his helm in sympathy. “It's not like you're evil for wanting something new. A change of scenery.”

“Don't call them that.” Arcee giggled despite herself at the thought. “I don't hate them, I just...never realised that they weren't the be-all and end-all. That I had other options. I mean, during the war, fine. You can't be picky. But now...”

“There's choices,” Blaster agreed. “Here's to new experiences.” He held out his still mostly full cube.

“To freedom,” Arcee said, and clinked her cube against his.

\---

Roddy hummed to himself as he fixed up two cubes from the energon dispenser: plain for Springer, and his own with the little packet of sweet flavouring he'd never really grown out of. 

It hadn't been as bad as he'd feared last night. He suspected it was more to do with Springer wanting to be with him rather than being that drunk, which was definitely preferable to the alternative and actually pretty sweet of him, in his gruff Springer way. 

They both had work today, Springer at the construction site and Roddy at Blurr's bar, which gave way better pay than Swerve and, to be honest, was much nicer anyway. That and it would just be weird to serve the Wreckers as their waiter, so he'd left the offer as a last resort when he was job hunting, however much Arcee had teased him for avoiding it.

“Roddy.”

Hot Rod stopped just in the kitchen's entrance, holding his two cubes, and saw Springer in the living room.

“Oh, hey, you're up. You feelin' okay after last night?” 

“Roddy,” Springer repeated, turning round so Hot Rod got a good look at him. At what he was holding.

“What the hell is this?”

Springer held the datapad out accusingly. Acid Storm's scowling profile picture glared at Roddy, who was temporarily too stunned to really try to get his processor in order.

The couch.

He'd left it on the fragging couch!

“Hey, no, it's okay!” The words all came out in a rush as Hot Rod gestured wildly with the energon cubes – sealed, thankfully, because they liked to break the seal at the same time when they drank. Arcee would smile and shake her head every time they did it, but Roddy had never really grown out of that either, and Springer was an enabler when it came to the little ritual.

That, though, didn't seem to matter in the face of Springer's mounting confusion and anger. 

“It's not _okay!_ ” Springer nearly shouted. “ _Decepticons?_ What the frag is this, Hot Rod!”

“Primus, calm down. It was yesterday – you know – I had a meeting with Jazz?”

“Yeah.” Springer flipped the pad around to read the profile, optics stormed over to hide the hurt he felt. “What was that about?”

“This,” Hot Rod replied, shoving the regular cube of energon at Springer and taking the datapad when his mate was distracted. “It's the rehabilitation thing for the ones who were less horrible murderers and more on the wrong side. I mean, there's one in there only a little older than I am.”

“Primus, wasn't there anyone else they could think of?” Springer didn't even try to hide the disgust in his voice. “Why us?”

“It's more, er, why _me_. I guess Kup thought I'd be a good Seeker-sitter.”

“Kup,” Springer muttered. “Of fragging course.” He took his cube and broke the seal with no warning, draining half of it with one gulp. Hot Rod's optics went to a slightly brighter shade of blue when he saw it, saw that Springer didn't even care about the tradition they'd shared for nearly as long as they'd known each other. Okay, so he was kind of wound up right now, but it still hurt to see Springer drink the rest of it and toss the empty cube into the recycling chute when Roddy's hadn't even been touched. 

“It's not like I said yes or anything. I just told Jazz I'd think about it.”

“Good,” Springer said bluntly. “I'm not living with a fragging 'Con. You realise these guys are the Seekers from Cybertron? They're Shockwave's thugs.”

“Yeah.” Hot Rod sighed. Back in the bad old days, it was mostly Seekers and drones that the tiny pocket of Autobot resistance led by Kup and Ultra Magnus had to deal with. He'd never realised the Seekers were this young. He didn't think he'd ever gone up and personal with any of these ones, though, and punching jets had been something of a speciality of Hot Rod's before they'd managed to escape to Earth. “For what it's worth, two of them don't have any kills.”

“That we know about,” Springer pointed out. “You sure you can even handle Seekers when there's no buildings for you to jump off and break your arm?”

“That was _one time_.” Despite the petulance in his tone, Hot Rod was smiling, and Springer smiled back. It was okay. They were okay.

He needed to drink his energon before the flavouring made it go all congealed and gross.

\---

“Good t'see you were nice enough to come back, at least.” Jazz smiled. “We've had some trouble like that before. 'Bots who want to help out have partners who're a little grouchy, or there's a 'no Decepticons' rule at their apartment.” He shrugged, doors rippling up and down with the movement in a way that was hard to look away from. “Still. We got a definite yes or no from you, Roddy?”

“Um, not quite yet. Springer's still a little...you know. I was thinking...” Hot Rod unsubspaced the datapad that had started all the trouble, switching it on to display the last profile viewed. 

“Could I speak to him?” Hot Rod pushed the datapad towards Jazz, who deftly took it to see Sunstorm looking back at him. The orange-gold Seeker looked defeated and lost, like he didn't understand how or why he'd ended up like this. He also looked, as Jazz flicked his gaze up to study the young Autobot sitting across from him, remarkably similar to Hot Rod. Not many mechs, 'Bot or 'Con, had such intricate designs. At some point, the time and effort it took to maintain it became more useful spent doing pretty much anything else. Maybe it was their age: they were both young enough not to become jaded enough to just go with a basic red or yellow scheme. Well, more power to them. In this new society, Jazz hoped there would be more who wouldn't have to worry about their own survival over looking how they wanted to. 

“Speak to him how?” Jazz asked, tapping the picture with one finger. “We don't really advise good folks like yourself to just go down and take a look around. Gets real unpleasant real fast.”

“Just a, a one-on-one or something, you know...see what he's like.”

“Mmm.” Jazz tapped the screen again. It had become something of a habit during these interviews with prospective owners, a sort of personal punctuation mark. “I think we can arrange that. You might wanna have a proper sit-down with Springer first, though.”

“Yeah.” Hot Rod grimaced. “You're right there. Both of us work, too, it's not like I can just bring Sunstorm to the bar...”

Jazz nodded. There were owners who took their 'Cons out to bars and clubs and things, but you generally didn't want them hanging around you while you were in work. The exception to this seemed to be Starscream, whose derisive, scathing commentary helped Skyfire and Perceptor work out the kinks in whatever they happened to be working on.

It probably helped that they weren't out in public, though. Roddy here didn't have that luxury.

“We can provide a yearly grant to cover costs,” Jazz said. “This can include stuff like paying off hours for you or Springer to be able to spend time with him. It's basically that we're paying you to try and help the poor guy out.”

_Drift'll probably help cover me_ , Hot Rod mused. The white mech seemed to view him with something approaching worshipful adoration, which was flattering and kind of freaky at the same time, but he could call in some favours for the first few weeks at least. That would probably be long enough to see if this was going to work at all.

“Great,” he said, out loud. “Thanks, Jazz. I'll go talk it over with Spring, then see if I can book an appointment or something?”

“Sure.” Jazz swiftly subspaced the datapad, seeing as Roddy didn't need it any more. “Any time, Roddy.” 

After Hot Rod left, Jazz was left to write up an interview report in a small section of his processor while the rest was left to free-wheel and pick over what had been said.

He'd thought Sunstorm would get picked up fairly quickly, but they were trying to match up mechs of similar ages. Sure, Bluestreak could probably win anyone over, but that didn't mean they were about to give him, say, Soundwave, still with the lowest level of the compound all to himself. That was asking for horrible, horrible trouble. 

On the flip side of that, a youngling like Sunstorm would feel more at ease, less like his only choices were violent outbursts or to mindlessly obey if he were with someone close to his age than an old mech set in their ways at how Decepticons ought to be treated. Kup laughed when the policy was explained to him, then said: “Damn right. Have you tried asking Hot Rod? Hell of a kid, if you're looking for 'em.”

He'd done a terrible job of covering up how pleased he was when Jazz took him up on it.


	2. Sunstorm, Side D

**Chapter Notes:** The reverse scenario, because I am a fountain of originality.

 

 

Hot Rod lay in the dark, staring blankly at the far wall. As much as he hated it, this was starting to become routine. Sunstorm was too slim to be Springer, too tall to be Arcee; he couldn't even try to pretend that the Decepticon wrapped around him was someone he loved. He knew in many ways that he was extremely lucky. Sunstorm stroked and cuddled and laid rapturous kisses along his body - just the sort of thing Hot Rod would love, in different circumstances. He wasn't raped or beaten or paraded around like a toy doll.

But.

He was still a slave.

Hot Rod didn't want to be brutalised like he knew the other Autobots surely must be suffering through, but at the same time it felt like he was betraying them for being treated merely like an exotic, beloved pet rather than a member of the losing faction in a millennia-long civil war. The lone survivor of the Wreckers, Springer had been sent to the mines as punishment. Hot Rod had no idea what happened to Arcee, only that she was alive. Their soft, almost imperceptible brushes against his spark were the only genuine comfort he had these days, that and the fierce satisfaction that here was something the Decepticons couldn't take away. Time and distance muted the bond, but it was there. They were carved onto his spark, and he onto theirs. Sunstorm didn't know; no Decepticon knew that in the last few desperate days the three of them had shared their sparks in one last burst of defiance. They were going to die or get captured, even Hot Rod hadn't been able to deny it in the end, but by Primus they were going to do it together.

It hadn't quite worked out like that, but they were still out there. It gave Hot Rod the awful yet lingering thought - it was too monstrously selfish to be called 'hope' - that if Springer died down in the mines he wouldn't be alone for too long.

Wouldn't that just ruin Sunstorm's day.

\---

Morning came, as it always did. Hot Rod felt tired and sluggish and wanted to recharge forever. Even energon moved slowly through his system, his body stiff and his mind lagging. Was he drugged? Sunstorm had never bothered before. Hot Rod was compliant enough when the Seeker wanted to touch, just sullen and unresponsive.

Said Seeker seemed to notice his condition.

"Are you all right?" His EM field lapped cautiously against Hot Rod's: genuine concern. No drugs, then, unless this was all part of some mind game Hot Rod was just too tired to care about. He continued to stare at the energon cube in his lap: mostly full, probably more than most Autobots would see all cycle. He shouldn't waste it, but he couldn't bring himself to drink. How much had his friends suffered to bring it here, to this room and to his hands?

He barely registered Sunstorm getting to his feet.

"Hello, I'd like to get an appointment, please. As soon as possible. My Autobot's acting funny."

\---

"I haven't touched him," Sunstorm said, hovering anxiously behind the Decepticon medic. _He's not Ratchet or First Aid_ , Hot Rod thought, then refused to think any further.

"How often have you been taking him outside?" Hook's tone was friendly and conversational as he shined blue lights into Hot Rod's optics and scribbled notes on his datapad.

"I haven't, really." Sunstorm tapped the side of his leg in a nervous gesture. "I don't want him to get anyone's attention."

"He's attention-grabbing, I'll give you that," Hook said, lightly patting Hot Rod's unresponsive knee. "But this one's a high-end racer, basically the grounder equivalent of you jets. What happens when a Seeker gets cooped up indoors for too long?"

There was a pause.

"Oh," Sunstorm said sheepishly. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Of course not." Hook rolled his optics. "I'm not saying you go parading around the energon bars, but for Primus' sake, at least take him on walks! That spoiler's not just there for you to play with."

Hot Rod looked down at the collar around his neck. It prevented him from transforming. A simple walk wouldn't magically fix him like Sunstorm hoped, and his spoiler would be just as useful then as it was right now.

"Oh, while you're here I may as well do a full check-up on him, after that business with the Stunticons." Hook either didn't notice or deliberately ignored Hot Rod's small gesture.

"What?" Sunstorm asked, alarmed. "Is he-"

"Just a check-up," Hook soothed. "I'm flagging any cases that might have a similar result."

Relief and worry warred in Sunstorm's optics. "Don't be too long," he snapped. He spun on his heel, gold paint catching in the harsh white lighting of the medbay, and stalked out.

"Seekers," Hook muttered once the clicking of thrusters was out of earshot. Hot Rod was starting to think that he wasn't that much younger than his owner. Sunstorm hadn't exactly mastered the blustering confidence and bravado that came naturally to Decepticons and Seekers in particular. In another universe, they might have been friends.

Not that that mattered now. Sunstorm had requested an Autobot as reward for his service during the war, and Hot Rod had become his property.

"Lie down," Hook ordered. There didn't seem to be much point in disobeying, so Hot Rod didn't bother. He lay down. The ceiling was as blank as he felt.

"Let's get this over with first. Open up."

Hot Rod stared. For one terrifying moment he thought Hook meant his interface covers - untouched since his first and last union with his friends, his bond-mates, his lovers. Hook caught on and groaned.

"Your chestplates. I gotta check your spark first. You Autobots are awful for fading out on us."

That was interesting. He wondered who the lucky ones were to so cleverly escape their captivity and frustrate their masters. He didn't want to show his spark to Hook, to expose Springer and Arcee to his hungry gaze. However faint their signals were, he knew the Decepticon medic would find them.

"Don't think I won't rip them open myself," Hook warned. "I'm not having Acid Storm complain to Megatron because his trine-mate's Autobot extinguished after he visited me. Not after Motormaster - ah, but that's not your business. I won't say it twice, Autobot." The one thing - the one thing he had! He wasn't going to just hand the sparkbond over to the Decepticons. They would try to pervert or destroy it because it was an inconvenience.

"Autobot..."

One more warning pause, one more simple refusal. Hook sighed. "Well, you brought this on yourself, kid." He promptly kept his word. It happened so fast Hot Rod could only scream after the fact, but it was mingled with Hook's yell when his exposed spark pulsed with the sudden agony.

"Primus!" Hook gasped, recovered from the burst of light, but he didn't fail to notice that the name seemed to send another pulse through the shining ball of crackling white light. "Where the hell did you get a spark like that?"

As though he'd stolen it. Hot Rod just revelled in the fact that, however briefly, he'd taken some of the pain Sunstorm had denied him when he'd been put on a pedestal above the other Autobots. Just for a moment, he'd been torn from it.

"Well, you're pretty young, right? Didn't get much chance to get your hands dirty, eh?"

Hot Rod had no idea what Hook was talking about, only that now there would be no hiding.

\---

Springer dozed in the dark. He couldn't recharge, hadn't been able to since entering the mines where he'd spend the rest of his life - barring escape or an Autobot uprising, neither of which seemed likely. The small, short, precious off-hours were spent in a half-awake daze with the others sharing the cell: Smokescreen, Inferno, Cliffjumper, Brawn. The minibots had quickly colonized Inferno in order to get the lion's share of extra heat he generated. The big mech didn't seem to mind, and neither did Springer or Smokescreen. Inferno's presence made the cold cell a pleasantly warm one instead.

Springer was aware that he was very, very lucky. The Decepticons running the mine either didn't know, didn't care, or thought he'd been sufficiently punished for his role as the leader of the Wreckers. The last group of free Autobots, they'd given hope to those already in servitude for a whole half an orn. The Wreckers didn't take prisoners, and in return you didn't take them prisoner either. He was only here because Roadbuster had other ideas when Ultra Magnus called the retreat. Wreckers didn't retreat, but...

"Go with them," his loyal friend and second had insisted, shoving him in the direction of where the City Commander was dragging a struggling Hot Rod towards a ship that wasn't even a quarter of the size of the Xantium. "It ain't us you need to be with." The Wreckers had given their lives for five Autobots and nearly a week of miserable, huddled, terrified freedom.

In those six and a half days Springer made the best decision he'd ever make in his life. He'd never forget the looks on their faces when he pushed his spark forward, open and inviting and incredibly stupid. Wasn't this something Roddy would have instigated? But it had felt so right, and the moment resonated with Arcee and Hot Rod. They would be separated, but they would always be together.

After six and a half days of being hounded by four enthusiastic ships, Ultra Magnus simply surrendered when the Combaticons burst onto the tiny excuse for a bridge. There was enough death. There had been a glorious last stand, and they'd fled from it. To waste the Wreckers' gift of life was not something the highest-ranking free Autobot would allow. Springer wasn't sure how much he agreed with that, or how much the Wreckers would have. Standing there as Swindle gloated and pawed at Hot Rod while Vortex 'accidentally' yanked at Springer's rotor blades as their hands were bound was certainly not what Roadbuster had hoped for. But...

Once, halfway through a backbreaking shift, he'd felt a kind of...flare in his spark that faded before he could latch on to it. It was rage and anger, bursting through what outlets it could find. In its brief moment, it was a signpost in the dark.

He was fairly sure it was Arcee.


	3. If You Lived Here You'd Be Home By Now

**Chapter Notes:** Last one with Sunstorm. File this under 'I'm really bad at "what happens next?" General gist of it was that shortly after Hot Rod & co arrive on Earth, Sunstorm starts getting...feelings. Actually Religious Guy + Potential Prime is a fun combo, I'm just terrible at actually writing the damn thing. Also stealing from Animated because why not.

 

Jazz was counting the breems until the end of his guard shift. So far the only remotely interesting thing to happen had been a passing cloud that bore a remarkable resemblance to Megatron's head, and he was planning on sticking a picture of it up in the rec room once he thought of a suitably terrible pun to caption it with. Something that would make the kinds of mechs who thought they were above such humour twitch with disgust every time they passed it. So far all he had was some combination of nimbus and nincompoop, and that just wasn't going to cut it. It wasn't even a nimbus cloud, although in some ways that made it even better. Not only was it an awful pun, it was an awful pun that was factually incorrect.

Maybe he was actually on to something here.

His idle thoughts were cut short when Bluestreak pinged him, and Jazz eagerly accepted the company.

"You've made it through to Radio Jazz, our first caller of the day is Bluestreak, on monitor duty I believe. Lay it on me Blue, it better be good 'cause I'm about to die of boredom out here."

"Uh, hi, Jazz." Bluestreak sounded a little thrown off but he recovered admirably. "We got something coming over your way fast."

Jazz perked up. Finally, something interesting. "Not friendly, I take it?"

"No. One of the outer patrols saw him coming in but he just kept going. It's one of the seekers, you know, the weird one. His name's like Sunstreaker, um, Sun-something? The one who-"

"I get your drift. The religious nut, right?" Jazz shaded his visor against the glare of the midday sun in a completely unnecessary but oddly reassuring movement. It was already shielded against the worst the Sun could throw at him, but somewhere along the line he'd picked up the human gesture. On the other end of the comm. line, Bluestreak giggled. "Yeah. Primus' holy servant, or something." He could just about make a dot on the edge of the horizon. Said religious nut wasn't even trying to hide himself.

"You know, I never got that. He loves Primus so much, how come he ain't falling at Prime's feet?"

"You could ask," Bluestreak suggested. "We're not picking up anything except him."

Jazz readied his weapon, but he got the weird sense that maybe he wouldn't need it. Maybe Sunstorm really was coming to grovel at Optimus. Any other Decepticon and he'd be spoiling for a fight, but this one seemed to have his own priorities. Or maybe Soundwave was involved and jamming all their sensors except the ones picking up the lone seeker.

It was unnerving how little time it took for that small dot to become a jet, and for that jet to transform and touch down a few feet away. Slagging seekers. Why did they have to be so damn fast?

"Hey there, Sunshine," Jazz greeted, inwardly annoyed at how the Decepticon gave no outward signs at all that he must've been pushing his systems to the limit to get here that quickly. "You seem to be in a hurry." He hadn't been shot at yet so presumably the seeker wanted something.

"Escort me to Optimus Prime at once," Sunstorm demanded, sweeping his wings high and as far out as they would go in an aggressive display. "It is of utmost importance."

"Mmm. He's in a meeting. Very important, you know. Top-secret Autobot strategy." It was actually just Prowl's monthly report, but Jazz had been dreading it so much at the time that he thought he'd rather swap with Bumblebee's guard shift. How hilariously, tragically wrong he'd been, because he'd somehow forgotten that this was _even more boring_. At least on patrol you were on the move and had a partner to chat with. Guarding the entrance was an exercise in slowly going crazy.

Instead of getting even more annoyed, Sunstorm actually hesitated. In fact, he looked as though he was distracted by something.

"I..."

Jazz watched in open amazement as the haughty, proud Decepticon fumbled for words.

 _He doesn't actually want to bother Optimus_ , he realised with internal glee. This was too much. Unfortunately, Sunstorm got a grip on himself.

"Please inform him that I wish to speak with him, then. I will not interrupt his meeting beyond that."

"That it?" Jazz blinked. "Am I just takin' you prisoner now?"

"If you must," Sunstorm said, voice dripping with undisguised hate. "I will only speak with a Prime on this issue."

 _A_ Prime? What, did Sunstorm think they had another one just hidden away? Silly seeker.

"There's one Prime," Jazz said mildly, mostly just to drive home that he hadn't missed that little detail. "An' he's busy right now. Unless you count Sentinel, but you couldn't pay him to get his aft down here."

Sunstorm's wings twitched. "I am not referring to Sentinel Prime."

"You said _a_ , not _the_. Was that a general thing, or did you forget how to count?"

Sunstorm looked so uncomfortable that if Jazz actually had any idea what the Decepticon was even after he might as well have been blurting 'yes, I did it! And I'd do it again if not for you meddling Autobots!'

"All right, I'll tell him." Slag it, he actually felt kind of sorry for the dejected seeker. This obviously wasn't how he'd been planning things to go. He'd probably wanted to just waltz right up to Optimus and declare his undying love or something.

"Sorry to interrupt Prowler's exquisite supplies report, but we've got what I like to call a situation out here."

 _:Jazz:_ , Optimus greeted. _We're on the general duty roster, actually. What is it?_

He switched over to the internal comm line, enjoying the hopeful, everything-will-turn-out-somehow-Primus-wills-it expression on Sunstorm's face. : _It's your biggest fan. The 'Con who thinks he's on a direct line to Primus is here and wants to speak to you about somethin'._ : After a moment of internal debate, Jazz decided to spill. : _Something about, and I could be wrong here, but it sure seems like he thinks we've got another Prime hanging out around here, which is frankly news to me. Have we?:_

There was a long pause. Sunstorm didn't seem to be the patient type, but to his credit he was keeping quiet.

_:...not to my knowledge. You're sure this is what he's here about?:_

_:He ain't said as much. But he mentioned_ a _Prime, not_ the _Prime, and ruled out Sentinel. There's no other Prime, is there?:_ Jazz didn't know why he pressed it. Of course there was no other Prime.

 


	4. A Fleeting Dream

He was being stalked.

That was the only reason Danny could come up with. He eyed the huge truck nervously and debated crossing the street until it was too late anyway. He didn’t get kidnapped when he walked past, but it definitely gave the impression that someone was watching him.

It turned up a few days ago on the corner of his road. No-one seemed to know whose it was. He never saw it being driven anywhere. It was just…there.

It was an impressive machine, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that it looked like the person who’d painted it - there was no way that was factory settings - had been drunk at the time. Still, assuming they weren’t a violent murderer, Danny could respect that whoever thought it was a good idea to paint it like that had the guts, or sheer bull-headedness, to go ahead with it anyway. Unless they’d just spilt paint on it and then claimed it was what they’d always intended, which was definitely a possibility.

He couldn’t help peering on tip-toe through the windows. No-one was inside. A strange, weird sort of longing filled him when he saw the interior. It almost looked familiar, like he'd been in it before - time and time again. His own home never gave him an aching nostalgia like this.

Danny vaguely wondered if he was going mad.

A few days later (or was it weeks?) the truck was replaced by a slim, eye-catching racing car. It was pink with white highlights, and Danny couldn’t think of anyone on his street who would buy a car like that. Then again, no-one owned up to the truck, either, and it gave off the same feeling. He crossed over to the other side of the road to avoid it. It didn't turn to watch him as he did, but it might as well have.

A few days after _that_ , he walked right past a battered old pick-up truck and nearly doubled back on himself when he realised he didn’t recognise it - he'd started to get paranoid about strange vehicles parked on his street. It didn’t fill him with the weird sensation the unfortunately-painted truck and the pink and white car had, though, so it was probably fine.

He was just past the headlights when there was the click of a door opening. Danny froze, one leg stuck out in front of the other, back turned. He was sure no-one had been in the pick-up truck, either.

“I ain’t got all day, kid.”

Danny’s hands tightened on his bag strap. He knew that voice, like he’d known the truck and the racing car - and, he realised, he knew the pick-up truck as well. It was just better at hiding it.

“Kup,” he breathed. Then he whirled around and ran, flinging himself through the open door.

“What's going on?!” He demanded the moment the door shut itself. He’d forgotten. He’d actually forgotten them. Anger rose up, clawing at his throat.

“Damned if I know.” Kup’s reply swirled around him from all sides, and an achingly familiar feeling welled up. Strangely, the old mech almost sounded cheerful. “Some crankshaft thinking he’s too clever by half. Still, no harm done.”

“Don’t give me that. Where’s Roddy?”

“Arcee had Springer sit on him until he let us take over. You know how he gets.”

Rodimus hadn’t moved from his spot on the corner for what felt like weeks. Danny felt sick. How much time had actually passed? Everything in his recent memory not involving Autobots felt fuzzy, like it hadn't even happened.

“Take me to him right now."

"He's already been punched," Kup warned. "And yelled at. You'll have to come up with something different to snap him out of it."

"Out of what?" Horror rose in Danny's voice, thinking of all the awful things that could have happened -

"Worry. Kid worries too much as it is, and now this..." A heavy sigh came through the air-con, which Danny hadn't touched and was still in the off position. "Someone was very clever. We'll get 'em, though."

"Quintessons?"

"Hmm...maybe. Can't say for sure yet. Let's just get you home for now."

Home. _Home_. The word echoed in Danny's head. The fright and shock at what had happened would come later, some distant and numb part of himself knew. But if he was going to have a breakdown, it would be in Rodimus' arms and not before.


	5. Ironhide and Optimus Adopt Baby Hot Rod and Springer

**Chapter Notes:** Had a younger Optimus  & Ironhide in my head when I wrote this. It doesn't really excuse Ironhide, but still.

 

"You sure about this, Prime?" Ironhide grumbled. His voice sounded loud in Iacon's deserted streets. "Ain't nothin' gonna be out here in this weather."

True as it was, Optimus was determined. "Very sure," he replied, peering into an alley and shaking his head. Not this one.

What started out as a tiny sensation in his spark had turned into a fierce pull once he was out on the streets, heedless of the pouring rain. Optimus could no more ignore it than he could command the stars to go out. It was the will of the Matrix itself.

"Best just to go with it, lad," Kup advised. "Primely business, this. Seen it myself, o' course that was long before your time, back when the rulin' Prime was -"

"All right, I'll keep quiet if you'll spare us the story."

Kup chuckled, not offended by Ironhide's words at all; he'd heard far worse regarding his storytelling. "Atta boy. Any idea what we're lookin' for, Optimus?"

"I'm not too sure," the Prime admitted, pausing for a moment as if to listen to someone - or something. "Something...lost? In darkness? It's small, I think."

"Well, there's some clues, anyway," Kup said cheerfully. Ironhide's optics flickered in annoyance but the threat of one of their mentor's long-winded stories kept his complaints at bay. Instead he fished around in his subspace and frowned. Only three energon goodies and a rust stick left. He'd have to replenish his supply once the acid rain stopped and the market stalls reappeared. He offered one of the goodies to Kup, who waved him off. "Too many bad habits already, lad. Let's just keep looking."

Up ahead, Optimus had stopped. "Hey, let's not hang about," Ironhide called out. "These umbrellas'll never last the rest of the cycle. A joor, maybe."

"I told you not to get the cheap ones," Kup said amiably, making a face as the Prime's protector popped the rejected energon goodie into his mouth. Optimus' next words brought them up short outside an alleyway that looked identical to several he'd previously inspected and then dismissed.

"It's here." Was it just the darkness, or were his optics glowing more brightly, more...whitely than usual? Ironhide put it down to a trick of the light, or lack thereof. Something about how bright lights appeared brighter than they actually were in gloomy conditions.

"Oh..." he couldn't stop his groan despite the potential threat of a full-blown storytelling session. His Prime's chosen alleyway was full of discarded boxes and packing crates. "In there?" He asked, spark sinking. It could take the whole cycle to search that lot! More than the joor or so he expected the umbrellas to last (okay, so they were cheap. Wasn't like he'd expected anything like this).

"I'm certain." Optimus spoke with the conviction only a true Prime could carry; if he said their small thing lost in darkness was in here, then it was in here. Kup suddenly held out a hand, signalling for silence. "D'you hear that?"

Ironhide listened, but he couldn't hear anything beyond the deceptively gentle hiss of falling acid rain. However, Kup had not lived to his great age by ignoring small noises in the dark, and the old mech shouldered past Ironhide and Optimus and strode purposefully into the alleyway.

"Summat's here for sure," he murmured, keen gaze sweeping the bedraggled tumble of abandoned boxes. Ironhide thought he heard it then, a soft sound that stood out against the now-familiar background noise of rain. It sounded like...was that a whimper?

"Anyone out there?" Kup called softly, picking his way between the boxes, Optimus following a few steps behind. The sound abruptly stopped. "Gotcha." Kup smiled grimly. "I'd say this was a likely spot." He squatted down next to an overturned box Ironhide could have easily lifted with one hand even if it were full of energon cubes. It was up against one of the narrow walls, slightly apart from the hapless piles, and a small sheet of metal leaned against it already showing streaks where the acid was starting to eat through.

"Optimus?" Ironhide asked uselessly as his friend crouched next to Kup, neither of them stupid enough to kneel in the rain-slicked street; that was a mistake you only made once. "Yep," Kup answered for him and placed his hands on the metal sheet. "Count o' three. One-"

"Leave us alone!" A muffled, angry, and altogether far too young voice called out. "We don't have anythin' worth takin'!" Ironhide's optics flared in surprise, but neither Kup nor Optimus seemed shocked that there was a Primus-damned sparkling in there - more than one, from the 'we'.

"Easy. We're not here to hurt you, or...take anything from you. Okay? We want to help. No-one should be out on a night like this." In the ensuing silence after Kup spoke, Ironhide took the opportunity to turn his scanning equipment on the much too small box. Two spark signatures, one stronger than the other but still too faint for his liking, pulsed back.

"Two of 'em," he said, deciding to go and block the entrance in case they tried to bolt once the sheet was taken away. "Hold up," Kup said suddenly, in a voice that sounded like an order. Ironhide froze. "I know you got some spares for that sweet tooth o' yours," the old-timer continued loudly. "Hand 'em over, they're needed here more."

"I was saving those!" Ironhide protested, aghast at the idea of simply handing over his last remnants - where was he supposed to get more, at this time and in this weather?! But he was a good soldier and Kup spoke with the authority of a sergeant, and Ironhide knew when he was beaten. Begrudgingly he handed his treats over and stomped to the entrance with a petulant whirl of his energy field, not missing the amused flicker from Optimus. Traitor!

"Hmm. Two energon goodies, and-" Ironhide winced at the _snap!_ \- "two rust sticks. Now, I know you're not fond of these, are you, Optimus?"

"No, sir. They're just not for me." Ironhide twitched, knowing his Prime would have that look of innocent amusement in his face that meant he was enjoying himself. "Aye, good lad. These are really more for sparklings, you know? A little packet of energon like this goes a lot farther when you're so small. And they do like the sweet taste, which most of us grow out of. Rust sticks? Nice and crunchy, just the thing to go down with your energon. But, since you and I don't like them..." Kup gave a loud, theatrical sigh. "Seems a waste, don't it?"

"It's a shame," Optimus agreed.

Ironhide concentrated very hard on not ripping the treats out of Kup's hands and running away. _Their need is greater than mine,_ he told himself. _Optimus will be disappointed_. You did not want Optimus Prime to be disappointed with you. He would just look at you, sadly, because he knew you were better than that. Proving him otherwise was the most spark-wrenching experience Ironhide would rather gnaw his own arm off than repeat. Part of him thought that you could just steer him around battlefields _looking_ at Decepticons and they'd surrender within an orn.

Those sparklings, the lucky brats, were shielded from his wounded turbopuppy gaze by the box they were hiding in.

"Just go away! I can take care of him myself, you know! I've proved it! I won't let you take him away!"

Kup didn't even miss a beat. Ironhide wondered if he'd done this before.

"Ah, I see we have a proud warrior, fending off all comers! I ain't dumb enough to try and split up two street-sparks, you know. Raised a few meself, they turned out all right. Even had my own protector when I was your pal's age."

Despite himself Ironhide perked up with interest. Kup never said anything about his sparklinghood in all his long-winded stories. Ironhide mostly assumed Kup just sprung fully-formed from his Carrier's spark, already old and grouchy. It was damn near impossible to imagine otherwise.

"Really?" The muffled voice sounded reluctant, but interested; he stood no chance against Kup. It was just a matter of time before they were dragged kicking and screaming into a proper home.

"Aye." Kup sighed. "Burst was the best mech I ever knew, right until I met Optimus."

They waited. There was no awed "Optimus _Prime_?" like they'd encountered before that Kup never got tired of.

"Who's that?"

"Well, Optimus, introduce yourself to the youngling."

Optimus crouched lower and Ironhide flickered his optics in annoyance. This was grand and all, but it was still raining. Couldn't they do this in the warm? And dry? And non-acidic?

"Hello," the Prime said, warmly gentle. "My designation is Optimus Prime. What's yours?"

A loud _click-whirr_ caught them all off guard; the sparkling's other friend had decided to join in the conversation, and the one who'd been speaking laughed.

"That's Hot Rod. I'm Springer. He says hi."


	6. Springer Does A Thing

**Chapter Notes:** Silly AU thing that isn't really going to go anywhere.

 

“I have the best idea,” Springer says. “Let's pretend we're in love.”

“What?” Rodimus is taken by surprise. He's always up for a good prank, but this isn't what he expects from Springer.

“No, hear me out. I say you're the love of my life and all these slagheads can stop trying to marry me.”

“Ah, well.” Rodimus looks down. “That's a good plan, but...”

Springer doesn't like that but. “But what?”

“I'm already promised to someone else.” Rodimus doesn't look up. He knows how much his friend is offended by the whole concept of arranged marriage, but he doesn't have a choice. Springer wasn't born into the world of politics and nobles like he was. His friend fought his way up, and now he's getting noticed.

“Since when?! Who to?” Anger wells up in Springer at this – this betrayal. How dare Rodimus keep this from him? How dare he smile and laugh and be his friend when the only reason he isn't one of them is because someone else has already snapped him up?

“I've met him a few times, he's not so bad,” Rodimus tries to placate him. “Galvatron of Chaar.” Springer files the name away so he can hate it properly later. “He's a powerful mech. If people think we're in love, then...” Rodimus looks away. “I don't want to get my father in trouble.”

“No,” Springer mutters, disgusted at the whole thing. He thinks he might have heard of Galvatron before. “I don't suppose you had any choice?” And to think he'd liked Ultra Magnus, was willing to do business with him because he wasn't trying to marry off his son to a total stranger. The worst were the ones who sent their children when Springer would have been perfectly happy otherwise to form an alliance with them. The notion that he has to marry someone to make it official is insulting and degrading to both him and the suitor, but at least he has a choice about it.

“Really, it's okay.” Rodimus squeezes his hand. Springer doesn't return the gesture. “I'm okay with it. You don't have to be offended on my behalf. We'll just have to think of something else.”

“Well, great.” Springer huffs. “Maybe I can still fall in love with you, but you don't return the feelings. You know, like a tragic doomed romance. I'll be too upset to marry anyone.”

“Maybe.” Rodimus smiles. “I think we'll have to work on it. You'll really have to sell it. And I can't reject you too harshly because they'll be lining up to comfort you.”

“Frag, you're right.” He hasn't thought of that. They're lining up anyway but he doesn't want to give them more excuses. “Okay. How about I act lovestruck and reject everyone 'cause there's someone else, and if I get pressed I'll say it's you?”

Rodimus 'hmm's. “I don't know. They might already know I'm promised to Galvatron and then think they have a chance.”

Springer gives up. They're walking in the gardens, and he goes to sprawl on a bench. “Then fragging what? Work with me here, Roddy, you know how these guys think. If your dad sent you over here to try to marry me, what would it take for you to quit?”

“The truth, maybe?”

“That's crazy talk.”

“No, I mean if you clearly weren't interested then I'd just be wasting my time.”

Springer groans, puts his hands on his face and drags them down to his chin in a sign of frustration. “That's because you're a kind and decent mech who cares about other people's feelings. These slag-suckers just think it means they have to try harder.”

“Thanks, I didn't know you cared.” Rodimus grins and sits next to him, slinging a companionable arm over his shoulder as he does so. “I'm sure we can work something out.”

“Yeah.” Springer stares up at the night sky, strangely content with his friend beside him like this. “Yeah, we will.”


	7. Try-Hard Mode

**Chapter Notes:** This was a self-challenge to actually try and have description/atmosphere/something other than characters spouting dialogue at each other in a white void (see previous chapter for example). Logos and Nova are basically OCs wrapped in canon names I stole from the wiki. If they seem grossly OOC, they are! (Sorry).

Rodimus had come to appreciate the silence and emptiness of the Temple of Primus during the night hours. During the day it was always full and hectic and he hated doing the afternoon rituals where everyone could gawk and stare at him. It was much better at night when all the other Primes – even the recently-promoted Optimus, only a vorn older than Rodimus himself – in the closing meeting to discuss the day's events, leaving the newest and youngest Prime to man the great entrance-hall with only a few late-night visitors to look out for. And then, when it was plainly obvious that no-one else would come and the place was empty and quiet, it was time to perform the night ritual. It was the most important at night, he was told, when the lingering thoughts and fears of the mechs and femmes who'd come to pray during the day would start to take hold if the rituals weren't kept to. Rodimus suspected they just told that to newbie Primes to make them feel better about being left in the deserted great hall, where they could do the least damage.

Whether this was true or not he wouldn't dream of not actually performing the ritual, even with no-one there to make sure he did it. He still got out the hollow gold sphere filled with sweet-smelling incense that dangled off its deceptively slim-looking silver chain, forged out of stars and meteorites and blessed by generations upon generations of Primes, every night. As the night-warden it had fallen to him and he intended to treasure it until a new Prime was inducted and took over the post while Rodimus was finally allowed into the closing meetings – not that he thought they'd be interesting or exciting, just a round-up of the day's events. But at least he'd be allowed in.

He lit the incense from the sacred flame and began the slow, measured walk towards the entrance. He pinched the long chain between his fingers close to the sphere and slowly let it drop with each second step until it was at the correct height. Rodimus was pleased to see that he'd done it properly this time – he'd reached the left side of the Temple doors just as the last of the chain hung off his pointer finger at its full length. Not that there was anyone there to see it, of course, and surely no Prime would be impressed if he told anyone.

This was only the first part, though. He closed his hand on the chain to get a better grip and began to slowly swing it back and forth like a pendulum, wafting the sweet smell through the doorway before he turned and began the anti-clockwise walk around the entire hall, one step at a time, humming the ancient Song of Primus as he did so. It was supposed to be sung but his teacher had stressed that it absolutely had to be absolutely perfect – words, pronunciation, pitch, everything. A badly-sung Song was worse than no Song at all, so unless you were really, really confident with your Old Cybertronian it was best just to hum, which was somehow not worse than no Song at all. He wasn't about to complain.

It was a dreamlike experience walking the four walls of the dimly-lit hall, only the smoky incense and your own footfalls and humming for company. Mostly, you just thought. And always Rodimus' thoughts turned inevitably to the fact that he hadn't even wanted to be Prime in the first place. He'd had no idea what he'd actually wanted to do with his life once he got his final frame upgrade, but it turned out that didn't matter: if your spark resonated with the supervising Prime when you underwent the final transformation – too bad, you're a Prime, hope you weren't expecting something else. No matter how many times he'd tried to explain that there'd been a horrible mistake, they didn't seem to notice. Him? Hot Rod? Prime? Surely _something_ had gone wrong, a glitch in the system, a screw loose...nothing. Arguing with them was like shouting into an abyss, except that at least answered with an echo. The Primes didn't even punish you, just expected you to do what you were supposed to in the first place and do it better this time. Trying to argue against that just made him feel spiteful and petty, so after a while he shut up and actually started listening.

On the final leg of the journey Rodimus was startled to see that he wasn't alone. Silhouetted by the candles surrounding the doors was another mech, big and spiky and dangerous-looking – a Decepticon. But you couldn't stop the ritual once it started or it'd leave cracks in the protection, so Rodimus kept the measured pace and the humming (while being aware that he probably looked pretty ridiculous). But the Decepticon had obviously come here for something, and you couldn't just ignore them or send them away because they were 'Cons. Sooner or later, everyone needed a prayer. In this situation you sent them a quick ping, and if they accepted you left a stock message explaining your position and hoped they understood.

_I am sorry, but I must complete the ritual first. I will be with you as soon as possible. I'm nearly finished._ He'd added that last part himself. 

The Decepticon turned to watch him – Rodimus thought he saw a nod. Then he really got a surprise when his humming was joined by singing, deep and sonorous. He didn't understand the words and they didn't sound like what little Old Cybertronian he'd actually learned, but it was still...beautiful, in a strange way. It was nothing like he'd ever heard in his life. It wasn't the same tune as the Song of Primus but that hardly mattered; they fit. The two melodies intertwined alongside each other in beautiful harmony. Where one fell the other rose, then was greeted by its rising partner and sank gracefully down...

Entranced by the song, Rodimus was hardly under his own power as he completed the night ritual and came to stand by doorway, close to the Decepticon, and the last notes faded away into the waiting silence.

“Beautiful,” the Decepticon murmured, dark optics locked on Rodimus. Pinpricks of ruby in the guttering candlelight. Rodimus stared back for a few kliks before he shook himself and broke the spell.

“Th-thank you for waiting. And – for the song. I am Rodimus Prime. Is there anything I can help you with?”

The dark gaze swept over him once more, assessing instead of merely admiring. “Perhaps,” was the answer. “I thought I'd arrived too early. They're still in their meeting, I presume?”

Rodimus nodded. He desperately wanted to know what the other song had been but when you were a Prime and you were trying to help someone else your own wants and needs didn't matter. “Yes, I'm afraid they're busy right now but I can perform the minor blessings -”

“No matter.” The Decepticon chuckled, optics glittering with something Rodimus couldn't place. “I'm sure they'll be along soon enough.”

“Um, no, they'll retire for the night.” At least being the night-warden meant he didn't have to deal with the morning crowds as well as the afternoon ones. “But I can send a message if you need a full Prime for-”

The doors at the far end of the Temple suddenly banged open and Rodimus nearly dropped the gold sphere when he jumped. He quickly put it away into subspace and turned, wide-opticked, to see the Primes streaming through with determined purpose, hurrying quickly towards – them, Rodimus realised, and his spark quailed. Had he done something wrong? Oh gods, that was Nova Prime himself leading the charge-

“What is the meaning of this?!” Nova Prime bellowed. “In this place! At this time! How dare you! How _dare_ you!”

“Hello, Nova.” The Decepticon inclined his head just the slightest of a fraction. “I thought I was being diplomatic.”

“You-” The Prime Superior actually sputtered with anger. Even though it wasn't being directed at him – yet - Rodimus instinctively shrank back, unintentionally bringing him closer to the Decepticon. By now they were surrounded by a semicircle of Primes: there was his teacher, Logos Prime, looking deeply concerned, and there was his friend Optimus, expression carefully blank and watching the scene unfold with steady optics. All of them sparked with nervous energy and emotion, fear and fright and shock and sadness and, if you were Nova, unfettered rage.

“You knew exactly what you were doing, Galvatron,” Nova Prime snarled. _Galvatron,_ Rodimus mentally repeated and stole a quick glance at the Decepticon's face. It seemed to suit him. “Could you not wait until the ceremony? And now you've tainted all of us, _ruined_ him-”

“Hey!” Rodimus protested when Nova's angry finger jabbed in his direction. “I'm not ruined-”

“Rodimus.” Logos Prime rumbled, silencing them both. “Do you know what has taken place here?”

“Um, no,” Rodimus admitted. He liked Logos; he was like a slower, deeper version of Kup. He'd caught Nova's mention of the ceremony, and made a stab in the dark. “Is it something to do with U-”

“Don't say it!” Nova Prime snapped. “I won't hear _you_ say that name in this Temple, boy. But yes, it is. Galvatron's little bout of _diplomacy_ was the Song of Unicron.” There were murmurs of distress from the semicircle of Primes as Nova and Galvatron faced each other down.

“A minor variant,” Galvatron said. “A simple greeting to Primus. It seemed appropriate.”

"Is that bad?" Rodimus asked nervously. He didn't understand how it could be, not when the joined Songs had been so beautiful, even though he understood that Unicron was something the Primes would rather not talk about. Nova Prime stared at him, too surprised to be angry, then rounded on Logos.

"Pits, what have you been teaching this boy?!" Rodimus bit his lip to stop himself protesting - now was not the time to demand that he wasn't a child. Somehow he got the feeling that it wouldn't help matters.

"If I may interject," Galvatron suddenly spoke, "I believe the reason you are all here is because you heard and felt the Song, too. If you all believe it is such a terrible thing to hear it, then you are all _tainted_ -" here the Decepticon broke his calm exterior, sneering the word in contempt - "as much as he is. He merely happened to be closest, and he followed your rules when he did not interrupt the night ceremony, as some of you might have."

"Do not speak to us of what me might and might not do, Galvatron," Nova Prime growled. "What business does a son of Unicron even have in this Temple? Surely you should wait until after the ceremony to show such familiarity to us."

The ceremony...Rodimus frowned. it didn't have a proper name. Every eight hundred and thirty vorns a Prime and a priest of Unicron, the dark god, were chosen to bond with each other as the two gods were. It was coming up in about half a stellar cycle but that was as much as he knew about it. The Primes were happy to answer his questions about how to do his job properly but they got cagey when he asked about the ceremony and angry if he pressed them - even Optimus had said he'd gotten similar results. Not for the first time did Rodimus wonder who would be chosen. None of the Primes were ever enthusiastic about the potential to bind with one of Unicron's own, even though it was supposed to be an honour. The most information he'd gotten about it was the reassurance that, as the youngest Prime, he would not be picked.

Galvatron sighed as if his intentions should have been obvious. "I have been chosen as Unicron's herald." He said it simply, as if it were perfectly normal, to gasps and mutters from the gathered Primes. "I was presenting myself to Primus, in the hope that He would find me acceptable, and while I was here I decided to see if there was a Prime that would naturally accept the Song." Galvatron's smile looked odd, flickering in the dimly-lit hall. "As it turned out, there was."

Rodimus squeaked in surprise when a purple hand landed lightly on his shoulder and all optics instantly snapped to him. "I-I didn't do anything!" he protested, his own optics wide with shock. "I just did the night ritual! You're not supposed to break it!" Not unless someone's life was in danger, but it had just been him and Galvatron and then it had all gone wrong.

"Yes, but..." Nova Prime shook his head. "We will consider this. In the meantime, if you have no further business with us, please leave this place." He fixed a meaningful optic on Galvatron, who shrugged. "Very well. I apologise for any trouble I've caused." Nova glared at him for that one as he took his hand off Rodimus' shoulder, and the young Prime felt strangely bereft when he did.

_I hope we can meet again, Rodimus Prime._

Rodimus jumped when the message suddenly arrived in his inbox - the one he'd set up for Galvatron to respond to when he'd first explained about how he couldn't break the ritual. He wasn't at all sure how to respond to it, even if the other Primes wouldn't hear. In the end he just stared at his feet for a few uncomfortable kliks until Galvatron turned on his heel and left without another word.

\---

The questioning that followed seemed to last for eternity. Nova and Logos took him aside into a plain little room – for all the glory of the great hall open to the public, the Primes had very little grandeur to themselves - and had him describe every detail, every step, everything he'd said and done and thought and not done. It was well into the day cycle when Logos finally said “Enough, Nova,” and the Prime Superior allowed Rodimus to stagger out feeling as if he'd committed some horrible crime. No, he didn't know Galvatron previously. Yes, he'd sent a message, but it hadn't been answered. No, Galvatron didn't make him do anything he didn't want to. (What was that last one even about, anyway?) The words had flown over his head, he was bewildered and exhausted, and seeing the great Nova Prime becoming increasingly more rattled and almost upset didn't help. Never before had Rodimus been so grateful for the hard, thin berth in his tiny room squirrelled away at the back of the Temple.

Recharge was long and dreamless, unusual for a Prime (or so he'd been lead to believe – always ponder your dreams, Logos told him once) and it was dark again outside by the time Rodimus' optics flickered blearily online. When he saw someone else in the room sitting next to him, he yelped and nearly fell out in his haste to simultaneously sit up and scrabble away from the intruder, resulting in failure at both and simply getting himself tangled in the thermal blanket he'd been allowed to bring with him.

“Hello, Rodimus,” Logos Prime said, as though nothing strange or unusual was happening. He looked ridiculously out of place, much too big for the chair he was using and yet still projecting a dignified, calming aura of wisdom. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay, I guess.” Rodimus managed a quick, weak smile, still clutching at the blanket. “I mean, it's kind of wild, isn't it?” He shut up when Logos held up a hand.

“Think over your words, Rodimus. Do not simply rush out the first thing that comes to mind. The urge to reassure is natural, but it is no help when it only deceives yourself and others.”

Rodimus looked down, hands twisting themselves in the blanket. There was a quiet moment – Logos Prime was possibly the most patient mech on all of Cybertron.

“I don't really know,” he said finally. “It's still weird thinking I'm a Prime. _Being_ a Prime.” He corrected himself before Logos could, but he missed the small smile on his teacher's face when he did. He was still staring down at his hands. “What am I even supposed to think about this? It didn't feel wrong or anything, but with the way everyone's freaking out it has to be, right?” He met Logos' optics, beseeching silently: _please tell me what to do._ It was a look Logos had seen before, but on the faces of the fearful, the desperate, the lost. Never on a Prime.

“It remains to be seen, Rodimus. Nova is...quick. He has a swift mind. A great asset, but in this case, perhaps not ideal. The others will follow his example, but keep in mind that his view is not all there is.” To Rodimus this sounded like a cleverly veiled insult, but he kept his mouth shut all the same. There were a lot of rumours swirling about Logos and Nova – mostly amongst the Primes themselves, since the worshipful masses would hardly dare to even notice such a thing.

“Yeah,” Rodimus said, feeling a lot better that at least someone was on his side. “It's not like Galvatron is evil or anything, right? It's just, you know, balance.” Logos would know what he was taking about. The Primes honoured Primus, the heralds and their priests served His dark brother. And, every so often, they joined. It all seemed so simple. Why was Nova even upset in the first place?

“As Prime Superior, it falls to Nova to choose the one who would bond with the chosen herald,” Logos said, looking distant. “Traditionally, the Prime Superior chooses himself, so as to properly honour both gods. But if he wished, he could choose another. Do you understand, Rodimus?” Logos always said that whenever he taught anything new – _do you understand, Rodimus?_ At first it was insulting, but he'd learned over time it was simply Logos being Logos.

“Actually...not really? I mean, he really doesn't seem like he'd want to pick himself, but he's so angry about whatever Galvatron did...wouldn't this be a great opportunity for him to just shove me out instead?” This time he did see Logos smile. _You're learning, boy,_ it seemed to say.

“He'd face outrage if he did. No, Rodimus, his anger stems from elsewhere.”


End file.
